


all quiet on the eastern front

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [56]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Animal Death (Frog), Discussion of Rape, Discussion of Underage Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sudden death forces Karkat to stop hesitating and head down the road less traveled...at least for a mutantblood in New Jack City. </p><p>Takes place immediately after the events of "a bullet on butterfly wings".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. little wolves among the sheep

**Author's Note:**

> So update on Let's Read Trailerstuck. That Ain't Me is cast! Huzzah. For the upcoming chapter there is still the need for a Kurloz, Dirk, Jake, Jade, Meulin, and Cronus. For further information please go to http://letsreadtrailerstuck.tumblr.com/.

**== >Be the OTHER older mutantblood years into the past (but not that many)**

 

The sickle has always been a great pleasure of yours. You twirl it like a dancer with a baton and strike at the wooden dummies surrounding you. You pretend they are cocky highbloods underestimating your power. They always die with a traitorous look on their face, disbelieving a teenaged mutantblood has caused their demise.

You are Sergei, fourteen years old, and you move like a troll made of wind and water; fluidly striking everything in your path. Though at this time, you are not Sergei. You go by the name assigned to you at the orphanage: Katzja.

The door opens and Dirk steps in, though he was named Diedrick then. You are fluid in your movements but Diedrick is always stiff, always trying to look as mature and controlled as possible to impress your overseers and the director. Its effect though as Diedrick is only second to Sawtooth in admiration.

“Katzja. A word.” He says.

You walk over, smiling. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. How was Germanium?”

“Boring.” Diedrick answers, “I heard you went undercover in Brazilitim with the ballet troupe.”

“Yes.” You grin. “Only a month of training and I performed splendidly. The director praised me for bringing in the infamous Butcher of Berdikhino. Sawtooth’s plan worked flawlessly.”

“His plan to have you abducted and abused by that disgusting man, you mean.” He sighs. You stare at him, wondering what point he’s trying to make. “You should have refused, Sergei.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Sawtooth is intelligent but he is exploitative of you. You are the only mutantblood on our team. You shouldn’t be doing honey trap missions all the time.”

You bat your eyelashes. “It’s not my fault I’m attractive.”

“Katzja, you are _fourteen_.” Diedrick says, rebuffing your caliginous advances. “You are fourteen and you shouldn’t be doing this. It’s unfair to you. We escaped the orphanage to avoid exploitation, not for you to continue in it. Sawtooth doesn’t treat Squarewave or Olenka in the same manner.”

You laugh. “Dee, you fret too much! For Sufferer’s sake, you’re like an old _woman_. We are _soldiers_ for _Trussia_! Personal feelings shouldn’t come into this, or you’ll become like Squarewave: always fretting over Sawtooth.”

“That’s the _other_ thing,” Diedrick sighs, “ _Please_ stop teasing Squarewave. He’s very red for Sawtooth and _definitely_ not black for you. Give him space, Katzja.”

You tilt your head. “Why? It’s obvious how Sawtooth feels about _you._ ”

Diedrick’s cheeks turn as red as your blood and he quickly leaves the exercise room. You question his embarrassment because everyone in the building knows about Sawtooth’s affections toward him now. Sawtooth is the oldest of you, a jokester who constantly gives Diedrick little affectionate touches and holds ‘private meetings’ with him. Sawtooth’s blatant favoritism makes you wonder how far they’ve gotten.

 

 

**== >Be Sergei three years into the future **

“What is the body count?” the colonel asks.

“One casualty on our team.” the director answers.

The five of you are huddled together in the center of the abandoned lounge. You are wrapped in thermal blankets to keep out the freezing cold, bruised and battered. Your superiors won’t look you in the eye. You’ve never experienced such a colossal failure. Squarewave stopped crying hours ago. Now he’s eerily silent and his eyes are watery.

 _Sawtooth is dead._ No matter how many times you repeat it, you can’t believe it. It can’t be. Sawtooth has always been there, cracking jokes about being an albino and an orphan. “Could life get _shittier?_ ” he’d snicker while the rest of you rolled your eyes.

You miss his stupid jokes and now it had all gone so wrong.

You were sent to Khaylovka, a secluded town surrounded by woodlands and resting by the Young British-Trussian channel. A small manor several miles from the port had been suspected of being the head of a smuggling operation but it was owned by a Germanium diplomat. Due to the non-aggression pact with Germanium, the Trussian government couldn’t directly interfere. So they sent your team instead. You went undercover as food caterers for a party at the manor, break into the bedroom, get to documents concealed within a safe, and leave with them at the end of the party. Sawtooth was the best safe-cracker so he went with you instead of staying behind doing observation.

It was supposed to be a simple mission.

Instead it was a trap. The information about the documents being in a bedroom safe was a lie from a double agent. Said double agent turned out to be a Trussian Cherub protecting the manor from your infiltration. What you thought would be a quick mission turned into a war. The Cherubs didn’t even have an army. There were only six of them, far larger than all of you and armed to the teeth. One of them was even on a leash, a muscular troll with madness in his eyes and slathering at the mouth. You’d been trained well enough to take on any attacker _except_ for a mad feral troll from Sufferer knows _where_.  

You’re all alive because Sawtooth took on the feral troll by himself. While you made your escape with a stolen car, Sawtooth went at the feral troll with only a grenade and his determination.

You heard the explosion as you were driving into the dense woodland. The closest safe house was in S’omaky, a crumbling ghost town overtaken by woodlands. One of the hotels was meant to look abandoned on the outside but the water system was maintained. Now you sit here watching your superiors debate about what’s to be done with you.

“We can’t keep them any longer. That sauerkraut-eating bastard is calling the non-aggression pact into question.” Says the colonel.

“We could say it was industrial spies and not our people.” the director answers, “We can even let them search our personnel files.” The colonel starts and the director holds up their hands. “Not personal information, just what they look like and we won’t show them everyone. Just enough to give them enough variety and let them think we’re showing them everything.”

“That would involve getting rid of them.” 

For the first time in years, you’re afraid. You know that if the government scraps you, there is no future. You can’t go to prison because you know too much. They’ll dig five trenches and that’ll be your end.

The director looks at your face and gestures for them to leave. They won’t let you know about the decision because some of you might try running.

They leave in the ghost town for a week and a half. You ache for the dorms and comfort of bright Luscov. Olenka briefly entertains the idea of running away but the woodlands are formidable, filled with wolves and laced with barbed wire and traps. It’s not just a safe house to keep enemies out, but also to keep _you_ in. The barest of provisions are delivered to you and you survive like vagrants. This is punishment for failure and it hurts because the superior officers and the directors are family to you. They rescued you from the cruelties of the orphanage director. Now you are nothing to them.

Diedrick takes the rejection the hardest. The first night, you hold him close and let him sob into your shoulder. The others pretended not to hear.

After eleven days, the director returns. He says you are being burned and will be sent abroad with new identities. There is pain in his eyes because you are all his children. Now he must leave you. You’re all frightened, of being separated, of being sent to another country, and of leaving the director behind, but there’s nothing any of you can do. The director struggles not to cry as you say your goodbyes.

You struggle not to cry when you say goodbye to Diedrick.

You get into five separate cars and are driven in five different directions. Your escort takes you to the harbor and you get on a cramped boat with other deportees. Papers get shoved in your hands with your new identity and history. You’re told to memorize it and meet your contact in the country you arrive in. Your papers say your new name is Sergei Vantas. You were born in Trussia and left after the death of your father. Your sickly mother died en route to the new country.

You sit on the boat, wedged with deportees. You have no idea where you are going but you will never forget Trussia and you will never stop missing it.

 

**== >Be Sergei in the present **

 

You wake up startled by the body lying next to you. Then you remind yourself that you invited Dom over and one thing lead to another again. You still haven’t formally introduced Dirk to Dom and you’re not sure if you should. Diedrick Strelkov may be Dirk Strider now but he’s still the same judgmental person. Damn. You haven’t even told Dom about your past and you’re not sure if you should.

You jolt when you feel warm fingers on your thigh. You look at the scarred yellowblood, who gives you a lazy grin. “Hello, handsome.” He purrs.

You grin and kiss the scars along his eyes. “You can’t even _see_ me.”

“ _Feeling_ is better than _seeing_.” Dom answers.

“I’m sure it is.” You trace circles on his collarbone.

Dom touches your hand. “Can I ask something?”

You smile. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Dom doesn’t smile though. “Why me and not Karkat?”

“Youth and perfection bore me. I prefer scars and age. Things that show strength and survival, not just vigor. You hold my interests.”

Dom smirks and trails his claws down your back. “I wonder how long until we’ve moved in together and picking out new furniture.”

You slide off of him and out of bed. “I don’t care about furniture and you’re blind.” You pause, “Maybe pick out another grub pen.”

Dom yawns. “Wait…what?”

“Nothing.”

You quickly leave for the shower before he can ask what you meant. You don’t understand how it came to this. You had sworn off raising _anything_ , but Karcin came into your life and your icy exterior crumbled. Now Dom is here and the old ache to reproduce is returning.

You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror and touch the snarling scar slicing across your lower abdomen. Its faded away to light grey but you easily recall the pain. The blood ejecting from your body as you collapsed on the bedroom floor. You shudder and turn on the shower, letting the cold water soothe past aches and pains. Only someone like Dom could make you regret the finality of how things are.

You don’t understand how things got this way. It hadn’t been flush at first sight. You found the yellowblood lying in the garbage in back of a Trussian grocery store. You thought he was dead until he started coughing. He was skinny as a stick and his arms were full of infected sores from severe soporin addiction. His lips were bleeding and his eyes sunken in. You took pity on him and carried him back to your home. He was delirious and convinced you were going to harvest his organs but you had a less messy idea in mind. Now you can’t think of life without the yellowblood.

And you haven’t told him about your condition.

You prepare yourself for the day’s tasks with green tea and toast. Years of working out in the field have made you adverse to sweetness and rich foods. You go downstairs to open the bar and nod to your employees. Dom is already downstairs. He gives you a kiss on the neck before marching to the kitchen.

You spend the rest of the day in and out, doing errands, purchasing more items for the bar, and visiting your spies for information regarding the gang war. You also pick up toys for Karcin, namely stuffed horseshoe crabs. The Lobster will complain about you making him too soft but you don’t care. You can’t wait until he molts and you can take him places. Right now, you’re scared of him getting hurt because of how small and fearless he is. He’s attacked stray dogs before thinking he can fight them.

In the late afternoon, you sit in your back office and calculate the bar earnings and how much a share has to be doled out to the Lobster. You’re doing well economically and hope he doesn’t raise your tax just to be a dick (but knowing him it seems inevitable). When calculations are done, you leave the bar to do some errands.

Karkat shows up that evening but he’s distracted. When he clumsily breaks two glasses, you call him into the office.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He stammers.

“Shut the door and tell me what happened.” Karkat stares at you. “It’s obvious _something_ happened.”

Karkat looks sheepish as he closes the door. “Someone I knew was…murdered. We found out about it on Saturday. He’d been missing for a while…”

A death Dirk didn’t report? Interesting. “Who was it?”

“My kismesis’s matesprit’s grandfather.” He says.

So no one important, but you pretend to look attentive as he frets about the situation. He talks about the blatantly trollphobic old Young British man (boring), most likely murdered by a Cherub (interesting), and the body uncovered during the post-garbage strike clean-up (obvious). They were yet to assemble a funeral.

“I just don’t know how to feel,” Karkat says, “I sure as hell didn’t like him but I feel bad that Jade lost her grandfather. I know what it’s like when someone important to you dies.”

“I think you need to take your mind off the topic,” you suggest, “If you feel up to it, you can be tested tonight.”

“Tonight?” Karkat brightens up. “What is it?”

You smile. “Just a simple test. Nothing important but we have to go to Aniline End.” Karkat blanches and you lean forward. “Karkat. You can never eliminate fear but you should never let it control you. Aniline End is a dreadful place and this task is not simple. It _will_ hurt.”

Karkat says nothing.

You lean back in your chair and keep your gaze on him. “And what you see in Aniline End may shock you. If you prefer a less challenging task then—”

“W-when do we leave?” Karkat says, breathing cautiously.

You smile. “Let’s go then.”

Karkat nods and follows you out the office. He is afraid but he is a true Vantas. He won’t back down from a challenge.


	2. one night in the aniline

**== >Sergei: Be the other mutantblood **

** **

 

You are Karkat and you have never been to Aniline End. You have never even been close enough to see the line that separates Aniline End from the rest of the Ninth Ward because no mutantblood has business getting _that_ close to that hellhole. Getting too close to Aniline End means you must have a death wish or be looking for drugs or trouble.

So why are you in a car while Sergei nonchalantly drives you down the increasingly narrow street in direction of New Jack’s infamous slum? You want to make a difference. You want to help people. You’re sick of feeling powerless and yes, you’re scared. You’re scared of what the task is but that fear is _nothing_ compared to the dread of someone you love getting hurt. For fuck’s sake, a car bomb went off where Dave worked. What if he had been outside? What if he had been standing next to the car?

You don’t want to think about it so you turn your thoughts to the scenery. If the Squalor is like another city, then Aniline End is another fucking _country_. While the Squalor has the occasional tree or patch of grass, there is _nothing_ green in Aniline End. The roads are unpaved and whole sections are gone, leaving giant holes, piles of rocks, broken cement, and garbage. Garbage is fucking _everywhere_ like it’s going out of style. The buildings look hazardous and not just because of the aged architecture but the materials. Everything has been borrowed or used: tar paper, plastic, sheet metal, brick, cardboard all held together with wattle-and-daub. One match and this neighborhood would burn to the ground (if a strong wind didn’t collapse it first). The most stable looking structures are ugly slabs of concrete held together with plaster.

As if reading your thoughts, Sergei says, “When Calliope happened, everyone expected this place to be wiped off the map. The mayor even drew up plans to expand the industrial park, but a problem occurred.”

“By some godsawful miracle allowed _this_ mess stayed afloat?”

“Parts of it did collapse but the basic buildings are made of a strong, weather-proof concrete. The people knew this and squeezed together in the buildings during the storm. Afterwards, everything scattered was gathered again and they rebuilt.” Sergei smirks. “City higher-ups can’t understand that the people here have nowhere else to go. This is their last resort so they will not be so easily moved. In addition, people were displaced during Calliope. Soon they couldn’t afford ratty motels and were dumped here. So Calliope made Aniline End grow.”

“Go figu— _ugh_!”

Its then you’re (unpleasantly) reminded that Aniline End sits on top of a cesspit. The rank stench isn’t obvious when you first enter the slum but now you’re barraged by the smell of raw sewage not only from open manholes but pumping from pipes on the sides of buildings. The sewage smell mingles with old oil frying and food boiling in questionable water. You look at buildings and see steam rise from smoky pots positioned in the doorways of brick hovels. People are lined up and waving boondollars. Homeless families huddle together on stoops or the curb, eating from dirty bowls and not meeting anyone’s eye.

“How can people stand to eat with that _smell_?” you ask.

“You get used to it. The locals call the pipe sewage ‘Aniline rain’.” Sergei smirks. “They’ve jury-rigged everything here. Pre-Calliope, the mayor did his best to get rid of this place, having the city officials religiously start cutting pirated power lines and pipes. People just dug themselves in deeper.”

The lesson is obvious: _desperation makes people stubborn as fuck._ There are a lot more people on the street than you thought there would be and no one looks scared or cautious. Addicts scope out alleys and people for a fix and prostitutes peek into cars for customers or attract new ones outside of buildings under the watchful eyes of their pimps. Homeless carapaces sit on blankets trying to hawk stolen and bootlegged goods. Lastly are the people lying in the gutter, already dead, dying, or not caring about the sewage in the street.  

You also notice the few warmbloods here. “I thought Aniline End was mostly purplebloods.”

Sergei smirks. “The Brotherhood likes to think they own _all_ of Aniline End but they’re delusional. Clowns _say_ they’re loyal but they’re hypocrites. Take the Sons of Alternia for instance. They preach a genocidal hatred of humans but many of them have been caught with human whores or have humans in their quadrants. Same with the Capricorn Brotherhood. They _say_ they are helping their fellow purplebloods but they are in bed with corps who experiment on them at the Institute.”

“Guess clowns don’t get irony.”

Sergei laughs. “Yes, but not all clowns are so stupid. Some of them hate the Brotherhood and felt betrayed when the Nehetalians took it over. Others don’t want to be bothered and would rather be with a loyal gang.”

“Like the Trussian mafia? What makes you so different?”

“We don’t pretend.” Sergei answers, without hesitation, “We don’t consider ourselves anything higher than what we are. We are _all_ criminals, Karkat. We help and protect our own and _only_ our own. We do not believe in fancy titles or lavish living. The Brotherhood’s reins are gripped by the Nehetalian poor; the son of textile workers and fishermen who have grasped gold. We are ex-military mostly. We have already seen the splendors that the lower class dreams of so we do not crave it, nor do we care for the rigid hierarchies. We blend in. We do not stand out.”

That explains why you had to change your clothes to frayed overalls and used shirts (which seems to be the fashion motif here in Aniline End). Sergei told you not to bring weapons but you’re still anxious to be in Aniline End without protection.

Sergei turns down another nameless street. The street signs had been destroyed a long time ago, so you have to look for distinct landmarks. A questionable looking apartment building across from an abandoned hotel makes this place Mintz Street (according to Sergei). The car parks in front of the abandoned hotel and you get out. Two giant brownbloods guarding the doors and look you over.

Sergei says something in Trussian and they let you through. You notice that the brownbloods have crab tattoos on their necks and shoulders. The inside of the abandoned hotel is not as disgusting as you thought it would be. Bare bulbs hang overhead, casting the fading worn carpet and bare cement wall in a sickly yellow light. In the waiting room two bulky warmbloods guarding the doors. At the front desk is a rustblood with red streaks in their hair and burn scars on their hand and arms.

The rustblood looks at Sergei and says something in Trussian. Sergei responds and gestures to you. The rustblood nods and says in English. “Do you need use of a room?”

“The back one.” Sergei answers.

The rustblood searches under the desk and pulls out a key. She tosses it to Sergei. “It’s vacant. Go ahead.”     

Sergei nods and you follow him down a narrow hallway. In the hall, Sergei says. “You noticed the burn scars? People here don’t have public works so they do it themselves. They use a knife and their hands to repair their electricity. Sometimes it works.” He shrugs. “Most often not.”

You nod but you’re at half-attention. You pass by a room with a large curtain in front of a glass window. There’s a sign outside in English: “Voyeur Shows: 100B. Peepshow: 50B”. The door opens and a naked oliveblood walks out, tail swishing behind him. A minute later a fully dressed human woman walks out. Your stomach gives a nervous squirm as Sergei moves to the end of the hall. He unlocks a heavy metal door and slowly slides it open. You follow after him into a large well-lit room. On the left wall is a rack of firearms and a table in front of it covered with a tarp. Lying on the floor next to the northern wall is a gym mat.

“So,” you mutter, “the Trussians have slave dens too.”

Sergei snorts. “ _Slaves_? Please. That is a Brotherhood prerogative. Do you know how much it costs to feed and maintain such a place?”

You shake your head. You didn’t like to think about it.

“ _Thousands_! And who benefits from it? Only idiots who want to sling their bulge around and act like this is Old Alternia.” Sergei walks to the table and yanks off the tarp. You stand near the door, watching him carefully. “Feeding and bathing those pathetic souls and never letting them leave… _no_. Trussians are…” He grins. “ _Entrepreneurs_. We believe in the worker earning their money and having dignity. This is an office. They work here but housing is on their own.”

“Still,” you say, “they’re prostitutes…”

“Would you rather they be drug mules or industrial slaves? They want to earn money doing what they know best. The shrines to the blasphemous Blood and Haze do the same.” He shrugs. “Why not us? It is the oldest profession and no matter what country, people do not stop fucking.”

That did make sense. In the manor’s hidden harem, you never saw money change anyone’s hands. It was all _pro bono_ at the expense of the Brotherhood. And who are you to judge? Your brother is going to become a sacred prostitute soon.

“What are we going to do?” you ask.

“Purplebloods are scum,” Sergei continues in a matter-of-fact tone, “and the Brotherhood is even worse. They have bulge for brains and _think_ they wield fear like a knife. The first lesson is not to fear _them_.”

Sergei picks up a bulletproof vest from the table and walks over to you. “Put this on.”

“A-alright…”

With your heftsacks, putting on the bulletproof vest is a little difficult. Sergei has to help you secure the front. You feel unbalanced having so much weight on the top of you. Sergei goes to the firearms display and picks out a handgun.

He shows it to you.“This is a Glock 17.” He picks up ammo from the table and loads it. “It is chambered with 9x19mm Parabellum cartridge. It has a standard magazine capacity of 17 rounds. It can fire full and semi-automatic.”

“Oh.” You say, the gunspeak bouncing off of you, “Am I going to…use it?”

“No.” Sergei says, “I am going to empty half of a clip at you.”

“What.” You blink. _“What._ ” Your voice goes up several octaves. _“Why?”_

Sergei walks to the center of the room. “The first lesson is about fear and how to conquer it. The gun is what people fear the most. This is how you learn not to fear it. With the vest on, it won’t kill you, but do not doubt that it will hurt. This room is soundproof so no one will come asking what’s going on back here. There’s a first aid kit in case something breaks.”

In case something breaks? Like your _ribs_? Gods, this is not what you were looking forward to when Sergei mentioned a ‘test’. You’ve never been shot before. Fuck, you’ve done everything in your power to _avoid_ getting shot. Now you’re standing here in the back of a brothel with your boss aiming a handgun at you.

“Are you afraid?” Sergei asks.

Of course you’re fucking afraid but you’re not chickening out. You won’t be able to look Sergei in the eyes if you cower. You get in front of Sergei and back up to the gym mat. You assume that’s for if you get knocked over. You stare down the gun barrel.  

“Does it matter?” you say, fighting to keep the quiver out of your voice. “Do it.”

“Alright.”

You don’t receive any instructions or warning. The gun fires and it hits you in the center of your chest. You fall back, hitting the mat. You’re looking at the ceiling, wheezing for air but can’t catch your breath. It hurts. It fucking _hurts_! You’re already cursing a blue streak as your mind goes into automatic profane rage mode.

“Karkat…?” Sergei knows you’re still alive because you’re cursing but he’s not sure of your condition.

“Shit-squatting taint-chafing motherfucking _gun!_ ” you shout.

Teeth clenching and wheezing, you force yourself to sit up. You’re not failing this task. Not after you’ve come so far. You feel a sharp stinging pain in your breastbone. You look down and a bullet clatters on the ground. You got hit. You got hit and survived (even though it hurts like a _bitch_ ).

Sergei looks at you, maintaining facial neutrality but you see surprise in his eyes.

You force yourself to smirk. Legs quivering like gelatin, you stand and take a deep breath. “Well. What are we waiting for?”

He grins back and fires. You get knocked down again and this time you just scream. You didn’t get hit in the same spot but it still _fucking hurts_! Sergei stands there motionless, waiting for you to get over the pain. It takes five minutes.

You get up again. You can’t talk. You look at him and shakily nod. Then you get hit the third time. This time you get hit in the stomach. There are tears and moaning and you feel like you’re going to puke.

The fourth time you come _very_ close to puking. You cough and hack but nothing comes up. It hurts and feels like you’re dying.

The fifth time stings but it doesn’t hurt as bad. You still end up on your knees but getting up easier.

The sixth time you stagger but don’t get knocked down. You’re dizzy and sweating but you soldier through the pain.

The seventh time you fall into a crouch but quickly get back up.

The eighth time, you are steady on your feet. You are surrounded by eight bullet shells. You are battered and bruised but still alive.

Sergei smiles. “How do you feel?”

“ _Aspirin_.” is the first word that comes to your rattled brain.

He nods. “You deserve it.”

You get aspirin from the first aid kit and a swig of bottled water. When you take off the vest, your chest and stomach are splotched with fist-sized bruises. Strider’s going to just _love_ these.

“Did I pass?” you croak.

“Well, you _did_ almost vomit.” Sergei says and your heart sinks. Then he laughs, “Relax! Everyone does that when they get hit in the stomach. It could’ve been worse. You could’ve shit or pissed yourself. _That_ happens a lot more often than vomit. You are made of tougher mettle than you think.”

Your cheeks burn as you put your shirt back on.  

“Learning to not be afraid is the first step.” Sergei says, “The next step will be learning to use the gun.”

“Sounds fine but I prefer my sickle.”

“The sickle is fine for certain encounters, but there are some things they cannot do, like hurt a target from afar.” Sergei clasps you on the shoulder. “Come. Its late and we should be returning you home. Can’t have the student out all night.”

You’re so young compared to him and he’s right. You still have to read more _Wild Swan Lusii_ and do your history homework. “Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?”

Sergei rubs his chin. “Learn Trussian and Modern Alternian. You’ll need to know both in this business.”

“When do I get to meet ‘Papa Lobster’?”

Sergei smiles. “When he thinks you’re ready.”

You nod and follow Sergei out of the brothel and into the dark and stinking streets of Aniline End.

The rest of the evening is dull. Sergei drops you off at home. Your Aniline End clothes smell like the sewer, so they immediately go in the hamper. You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror and with the bruises and skin blemishes; you look even more like your grandfather.


	3. the lobster

You don’t harass Sergei about when you’re going to meet Papa Lobster. You’re anxious but don’t want to be annoying. Still, your thoughts are consumed with the criminal underworld of New Jack City. If the Brotherhood is familiar with the mayor, the police, and the DD, who are the Trussian mafia affiliated with? They had to have politicians and police on their payroll. What properties did they own?

Jade and Dave have been distracted lately so it’s not until Saturday your bruises are discovered. You’re changing into your work clothes when Dave walks into the room.

“Hey Karkat, what do you— _holy fuck. What is that_?” 

You finish buttoning your shirt before you respond. “I fell down the stairs.”

Dave frowns. “Like fuck you did. I know what impact bruises look like. Did someone throw something at you? At a hundred miles an hour?”

“I’ve been strifing with Sergei at work. He was just teaching me about dealing with gun impact and injuries.” Dave’s frown intensifies. “Oh my god, Strider. It’s no different from what you do with Dirk.”

“Bro doesn’t _shoot me_ with a fucking _gun_.”

“He swings a sword around your head. And how long have you been doing that?” He doesn’t respond. “Dave, I wore a bulletproof vest. It hurt like a bitch but I’m fine now. It’s not like you never got scratched or bruised. Remember that time you were bleeding on the _floor_?”

It had been a particularly rough strife session between Dirk and Dave. Dirk had a split lip and Dave’s left arm was a long bloody strip. Dave sighs. “It was just a really bad scrape.”

“And _these_ are just really bad bruises. So what do you want?” you say, forcing politeness.

Dave is frowning but doesn’t push it. “Kankri and Terezi invited us over for dinner at seven.” You groan and Dave admits in a low voice, “Yeah, Kankri’s cooking isn’t great but Jade _really needs_ to get out of the house.”

Behind the Strider poker face is someone who’s worried about his matesprit. Jade hasn’t moved from the living room. She just lies on her grandfather’s couch (that you ‘borrowed’ from his mobilehive) and watches the Squiddles have the worst multicolored shenanigans ever to be animated in Flash. Terezi may be able to bring her out of the funk with her warm personality.

“Alright…” you sigh, even though you dread Kankri’s cooking.

When you get to work, things are already bustling but Sergei has a task for you. You leave the bar and head to the Squalor. The car arrives at Cronus’s share-house and immediately you’re confused. You’ve visited Cronus during the possible post-molt break up with Dave but you have no idea what you’re doing there. As usual, the front stoop is crowded with kits and Hercul Droog is one of them. He’s shooting up like a weed.

“Hey, Mister Vantases!” Hercul says, smiling at you both.

“Hey, kid.” You say, giving the kid a polite wave.

Sergei nods to Hercul but doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the first floor living room and on the couch is a bulky mutantblood watching TV. Tattoos curve along his arms and in his lap is a purring red grub with a small tail.

 _“Ey, ksorik.”_ Sergei says, smirking.

The large mutantblood doesn’t look at you. The grub looks at you though and gives a growly hiss. _“Yago priblizitel’mu roz, kogda vy vuyavilik’. Crsu ty tak dursu?_ ”

You don’t need a translation. You can tell from his indifferent attitude that this is Papa Lobster. He’s definitely what you picture when you think ‘Trussian gangster’: a hulking troll who looks like nothing would bother him, not even the cold touch of a gun pressed against his temple.

Sergei and Papa Lobster talk back and forth in Trussian for a few minutes. The entire time, the grub growls at you, showing off his sharp tiny teeth. Were you this aggressive at his age? Eventually Papa Lobster yanks on the grub’s tail and it yelps and goes quiet. It still glares at you though.

Papa Lobster looks at you. “You are Karkat Vantas?” He has a heavy Trussian accent.

“Yeah.” It’s a struggle not to stammer.

“I was told you were short.”

“I molted last month.” 

Papa Lobster picks up the grub and stands. “Follow.” Papa Lobster walks over to Sergei and hands him the grub. “ _My bidak govorit’q crostnom poryadke. Igrat’k Karcin._ ”

Sergei smirks and takes the grub, which starts to purr at him. Sergei immediately starts nuzzling and kissing the grub, fondly speaking in Trussian to it. You wonder: is this is Sergei’s child? You know next to nothing about Sergei’s personal life so all options are viable. Sergei stays with the grub while Papa Lobster leads you to the back porch. You both sit at a table under a shade cover. A minute later, Sergei comes onto the porch. The grub is nestled into his shirt and he’s carrying an unmarked bottle of a clear liquid and three glasses. Papa Lobster takes the glasses and Sergei says something in Trussian. Papa Lobster doesn’t respond and Sergei shrugs and goes back inside.

Papa Lobster puts the vodka and glasses on the table. You sit across from him and try to appear calm even though your skin is crawling. You know he’s sizing you up; trying to see if you’re worth his time and energy.

“Why do you want this?” he asks. “I’m sure there are other opportunities for you.”

“I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

“You can’t be hurting for money. This life is not pleasant and it is not easy.” Papa Lobster opens the bottle, not taking his eyes off you. “Work will be difficult. You will do things that you regret. You will do things you will hate. You may question me, but you must still do them.”

You’re almost certain he means killing people. “I’m sure Sergei told you what the Brotherhood did to me.”

“Revenge is never a good reason to make these choices.”

“This isn’t about revenge or seeking justice. There were other mutantbloods in that place who didn’t have an ‘out’. They were left behind to be abused and rot in that place because they had nowhere else to go. I’m tired of people preying on mutantbloods. I’m tired of this city chewing up the people I love and spitting them out.”

“And legal channels do not appeal to you?”

“We both know the police are corrupt.” Your teeth are clenched. “When I was missing, not one report went out. The corps, courts, and cops are all in on it. You can’t trust anybody in the system. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. Not me and not my children.”

Papa Lobster pours the liquid into three glasses. The strong alcohol wafts across the table. This isn’t store-brand vodka but from someone’s private still.

“Protection and power are good reasons but sometimes it does not outweigh the danger.” he says, “If you do this, there is no turning back. Many people proclaim to leave this life but they always return. Sergei was a soldier for many years. Then he left the life behind and swore it off. I found him in Aniline End, smeared with the blood of those who would make him a slave. Now he is a soldier again and it suits him. This life changes you. Changes your soul. You make this choice, you can’t go back.”

You see in his eyes that it is not a threat but the truth. Like any veteran, it is hard to turn away from the life of excitement once you’re exposed to the battlefield. Others crack under the pressure of normalcy. Working for the Trussians will transform you but so what? You have already transformed. You changed mentally the night you were abducted. Now you’ve changed physically.

The world is cruel and the only people who will help you are those you know best. Like your grandfather, you are binding threads to get what you want.

“I already started walking down that path the day I was raped,” you answer, “and I have no interest in quitting half way.”

You don’t know if that’s the right answer. Sergei returns to the porch carrying a small tub. Papa Lobster nods to the other mutantblood and Sergei moves to stand between you. He opens the tub and inside is a large croaking frog. Sergei gets out a switchblade and with precise care he cuts the frog open and pours the frog’s blood into the vodka glasses. He pulls out the tiny—still beating—frog heart and drops it into a glass.

You get the glass with the still-beating heart. You force your hands to be still as you take it.

 _“Chtoby q bidikrcrak.”_ Papa Lobster says and sucks down the vodka and blood cocktail.

 _“Chtoby q bidikrcrak.”_ You repeat, mangling the Trussian with your inexperienced pronunciation.

You try not to think about what you’re drinking as you splash the vodka, frog blood, and frog heart down your throat. Thankfully the frog heart is small enough to swallow whole. There’s a slight mineral taste like burnt liver but nothing too imposing with the vodka there.

You smile at Papa Lobster, feeling proud for not flipping the fuck out.

“The frog is a symbol of eternity, which is to be the length of our bond.” Papa Lobster says. He looks at Sergei, who is purring and cradling the grub. “His Trussian needs work. He must learn Fenya as well.”

“I’ll show him the ropes.” Sergei says, not taking his eye off the grub.

“Well then,” Papa Lobster leans back in his chair, “welcome to our group of exiles, Karkat.” 

You smile. You could get used to life amongst the Trussians.


End file.
